Part 11: I'm Not Stopping This Time

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Part 11: I'm Not Stopping This Time

The second the front door clicked shut behind Jake, my phone buzzed again.

Dylan: Don’t care if Jake’s in the kitchen. Come downstairs. Now.

I stared at the message, heart hammering.

He didn’t know Jake had left. He didn’t know we were alone. And if I told him—

I swallowed hard, thumbs already moving before I could second-guess it.

Me: He’s gone. You’ve got me all to yourself.

Three dots popped up. Then vanished.

No reply.

I stood frozen for a beat—then I heard it. A creak from below. A faint noise in the basement.

I stepped into the basement, and there he was.

Dylan.

Shirtless. Just those tight black gym shorts clinging to his thighs, the rest of him carved like a god. His chest was glistening slightly from a shower or a pump, shoulders broad and relaxed like he owned the world. Like he owned me.He didn’t move.

Didn’t say anything.

Just watched me, like a king waiting for worship.

I took a shaky breath. “Sooo… Jake’s gone. All night.”

Dylan’s lip curled into a smirk. “Good.” He shifted slightly. “Means you can moan as loud as you want.”

My throat went dry.

“You gonna stand there looking at me,” he said, voice low and firm, “or you gonna come here and show me what that mouth was made for?”

I stepped closer, pulse wild, eyes locked on his chest.

“Start at the top,” he murmured. “Work your way down. Slowly.”

I reached up, fingers brushing across his thick pecs. His skin was warm, chest rising and falling beneath my hands. He was solid—immovable—like touching him was some ancient ritual.

“You like this?” he said, tone cocky, dipping his chin to watch me.

I nodded, too breathless to speak.

“Good. Now use your mouth.”

I leaned in, lips pressing softly to his chest—then tongue. His skin tasted like salt and skin and want. I kissed across his pecs, down the line between them, letting my hands roam lower.

“Slower,” he growled. “Like you mean it.”

I obeyed, dragging my tongue down the center of his abs, following the ridges like they were holy scripture. His hand found the back of my head, not pushing—just there. Possessive. Like he owned me now.

“Lower,” he said again. “Keep going. Don’t stop till I say.”

I kissed the edge of his V-line, the waistband of his shorts. He smelled like sweat and soap and something raw underneath—masculine and intoxicating. His cock twitched inside his shorts, thick and heavy, begging to be touched.

“You like that?” he asked, looking down at me. His voice was cocky now—completely sure of himself. “You like being on your knees for me?”

I nodded, lips parted, breath shallow.

“Show me.”

I looked up at him, then down. My hands slid over the waistband of his gym shorts, and he didn’t stop me.

Didn’t help either.

He wanted me to do it myself.

So I did. Slowly.

They dropped, pooling at his ankles.

And then—I forgot how to breathe.

He was hard. Heavy. Already dripping.

And he was smirking like he knew exactly what it was doing to me.

“Open your mouth,” he said. “Nice and slow.”

I obeyed.

He didn’t thrust. Didn’t grab my head. Just stepped forward—so smooth, so fucking confident—and fed it to me, inch by inch.

I moaned the second he filled my mouth, the weight of him resting heavy on my tongue.

“Good boy,” he said.

I swore I could’ve come from that alone.

His hands found the back of my head, gentle but firm. “Now worship me properly.”

And I did.

God, I did.

Slow, deep, messy. I bobbed my head, tongue swirling around the tip every time I pulled back, cheeks hollowing as I sucked him back down. He hissed through his teeth, abs flexing as I picked up speed, spit dripping from my lips, dripping down his cock. I didn’t care. I wanted to taste all of him.

“Fucking look at me,” he growled.

I looked up, eyes glassy, jaw wide around him.

“That’s it. Just like that. You’re so fucking good at this.”

I moaned around him, and he twitched in my mouth.

“Such a good mouth,” he growled. “Knew you’d be good at this. Fuck—don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

I didn’t.

I sucked him like my life depended on it. Let him use my mouth. Let him fuck into me slowly, hips rolling, his abs tightening every time I moaned around him.

“Messy little thing,” he muttered. “God, I could come just from watching you.”

He didn’t though. Not yet.

His hips finally bucked forward, once, hard, and I gagged—but held on.

He pulled out suddenly, cock glistening with spit, and reached down to yank me up.

I moaned again, louder this time. My cock was straining in my jeans, untouched, aching.

“You’ve got thirty seconds,” he said, pulling out suddenly. “Get your clothes off.”

I blinked, breathless and dazed, saliva dripping from my chin. “What?”

“Get on the couch,” he said. “Hands and knees.”

My knees wobbled as I climbed up, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. He came up behind me, yanked my pants down, and groaned.

He pointed to the couch. “I’m fucking you. Now.”

I gasped as his hand landed on my ass—rough, greedy.

“You ready for this?” he asked, positioning behind me, cock teasing against my hole.

“God, yes.”

“Good. Because I’m not stopping this time until I nut in you.”

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